


My Will Across the Sky in Stars

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9185837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: The Kingdom of Alternia sends one of its most promising (if reluctant) to serve Skaia's heir apparent. Karkat Vantas has met John before. He hasn't met his competition.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marburusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marburusu/gifts).



> ok so the very minute [aryll](http://aryll.tumblr.com) told me about her au i took it and ran. nay. i sprinted. i usain bolted on this mother. i love royalty aus with a deep undying passion
> 
> -the Skaian noble families revolve around prospit and derse, obviously  
> -Alternian nobility/allegiances are based on the red and blue teams at the start of the sgrub session, so their outfits reflect that along with their typical gt clothing. ~worldbuilding~  
> -PLEASE [look at this beautiful art](http://aryll.tumblr.com/post/154733403600/this-is-an-unapologetically-self-indulgent) of the boys if you havent done so already because its all i think about 
> 
> i forget what else i was gonna say so thats enough for now! enjoy and happy fuckin new year kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait,” you interrupt, incredulity jumpstarting your mouth and catching it up to your brain. “John is running the show?!”
> 
> Your mind’s eye summons memories without much effort: a grinning boy with the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, tugging on your sleeves to explore while you furiously attempted escape.

**> Author: preamble like a fucking champ.**

The kingdom of Skaia isn’t on any map. Not because it’s small, or insignificant by any means, but because any traveler winds up on its checkered roads at some point or another. It’s as if a certain call is etched into its stones; familiarity in the shapes the clouds take over the rolling fields; a strange sort of nostalgia in the crisp slaps of wind against gold and purple banners.

Most of the roads lead to the castle, to whichever way the coin of dominion over Skaia has fallen. Noble blood runs through its rivers, is rooted deep underground. Two families, entwined in one another, ruling and serving, serving and ruling.

This coin toss around, bright suns and equally bright pennants hang above the great hall, and a Prospitian princeling sits on a throne he isn’t sure he’ll grow into.

The prince adjusts his hood (it catches on his earrings when he doesn’t notice, sometimes) and sighs: its thin echoes settle in the gilded ceiling high above his head. Outside, another boy with his sovereign’s livery over his own swings a sword at a hundredth—thousandth?—painted target, before raising his gaze skyward.

Above them, beyond the prince’s castle walls and leagues of uncharted and forgotten waters, lies another player in Skaia’s never-ending game of chess.

*

Skaia drinks the sun’s rays at a cost. Somewhere unspoken, light is sucked from the sky, leaving a perpetual black sheet in the place of blue and white. Temperamental storms and unforgiving droughts duel over forsaken territory.

And this is Alternia—a kingdom which draws its borders where sleek roads turn to sand; where ashen skies hide a spectrum of tense alliances. Its people pay the price in genetics, in foreign appearance and unpredictable decisions. Alternia is brutal where Skaia is bountiful, its children Spartan where Skaia’s are solemn. Unvoiced rivalries (though voiced, the stories say, in the most brutal of ways long ago) crackle in the air, with lightning reminiscent of its own noble lines.

Here, a blue princess occupies the throne. Two braids pull the rest of her hair away from her face, an inkjet curtain of black against the pink of the pillows. Brightly coloured circlets and bangles on her bare arms stand out sharply against the telltale greyish of Alternian skin: even royalty is not exempt from adaptation. One leg is curled under her; her head rests on her knuckles. A picture of boredom, on anyone else, but on Feferi and her glittering, curious eyes, it’s an invitation.

* * *

 

**> Karkat: Advance the plot. **

The doors of the great hall open soundlessly, huge towering things with symbols of royalty etched into its surface. Anyone summoned to the Blue court tends to feel insignificant the moment they walk through them, but this is a feeling you’re no stranger to.

“Karkat Vantas to see you, your Highness,” the herald calls.

You stick your tongue out at him.

From her throne, Feferi waves you closer. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Like I had a choice. I think you forget how a fucking monarchy works,” you retort, with a hastily tacked-on “your Highness” after a kick from the herald sends you stumbling forward on the deep fuchsia carpet. Kissass.

Feferi laughs at that. Years ago, a traveler had commented on the princess’ voice, how it sounded like a siren, lyrical and dangerous. You mostly think it sounds like someone who talks too much. But she had laughed at that too, and had replied that the siren business was a little grim for her taste.

Then again, it’s been over five years.

You reach the foot of the throne. You hate bowing (you’ve known Feferi since you were kids, what the hell is the point in pretending otherwise?), but Alternia is nothing if not set in its ways, and so you drop to one knee anyway.

“Do you know why I called you in, Vantas?” She manages not to sound condescending.

“Not a clue, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me. Uh, your Highness.” Your fingers twitch against your trousers. This is cutting into your sparring time: your partner is pretty easygoing, but you don’t like leaving him alone too long.

Feferi leans forward in her seat: bangles knock hollowly against one another. “We’re sending an envoy to Skaia in three days. Renegotiations, amendments, all that.” She waves a dismissive hand. For the princess of a militaristic kingdom, Feferi has gained a passive reputation.

“That’s, um. That’s nice,” you say, when it’s clear she won’t elaborate until you take the bait ( _ugh_ ). “But I still don’t understand what it has to do with me.”

“It has everyfin to do with you!” She points a manicured finger at you: rings glitter and catch in the dim lights. “I need an ambassador to Skaia’s court. Just so happens you’re perfect for the job.”

For once in your twenty years, you’re speechless.

Feferi pretends not to notice your jaw getting intimate with her floor and continues. “Skaia’s heir apparent is preparin’ to take the crown, and since you were on such frondly terms last time you—”

“Wait,” you interrupt, incredulity jumpstarting your mouth and catching it up to your brain. “ _John_ is running the show?!”

Your mind’s eye summons memories without much effort: a grinning boy with the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, tugging on your sleeves to explore while you furiously attempted escape.

“Peixes—I mean, your Peixesness, are you off your fucking rocker? Shipping me off to the Land of Sun and More Sun because there’s a _slight_ chance a prince with a buttload of stuck-ups in his inner circle might remember me? We were six!”

This barely seems to bother Feferi. She twirls her trident absently, and even without the legendary temper her mother ruled with, it’s a threatening enough pose. “I’m not concerned with that.”

“I am!” you sputter. “I wouldn’t know what to do. Why don’t you send someone qualified, like your shit cousin, or Serket, anyone who knows anyfin—any _thing_ , gods _above_ —”

“Karkat.” Feferi drops the formality another level, and you remember long evenings on the docks, kicking water at each other and pretending neither of your futures were written out of reach. “You’ll be a knight someday. A good one, I’m shore of it.”

You roll your eyes, but feel your cheeks burn. Having any of your friends know your dream is a little embarrassing, but having your sovereign know it is somehow worse. “I…”

“And if you’re gonna be a knight, why not be one where you can serve your kingdom all the better?”

You’re starting to see where that siren comment may have come from. Feferi holds your gaze, pink-ringed eyes making your skin prickle. You feel more than a little vulnerable, and you quickly bow your head to avoid looking at her for too long. Fucking monarchs. “Alternia first,” you mumble at your feet, sincerity weighing every syllable down.

Feferi looks pleased. You don’t even have to look up at her to know that. “Three days, Vantas. Take what you need, say your goodbyes. And try to smile for a change, will ya?”

You bite back a retort that would be very unbecoming of a knight-in-training (or very becoming, come to think of it) and show yourself out.

*

“I still don’t really get it.”

You bunch up your shoulders in a shrug as you load your trunk with the essentials. You’ve spent the days before your trip reading up on Skaian custom, training with Gamzee, and generally avoiding the finality that came with packing your shit. On your bed, Terezi fiddles with the laces of your spare boots, tying and untying them. “What more is there to get?” you reply. “I’m going to Skaia to train as a knight for a silly kid in a big boy crown. Oh, and I have no goddamn clue what to do once I’m there, except try not to let our kingdoms go to war. Really, it’s all peachy fucking keen.”

The two of you have been friends for ages: she was your favourite sparring opponent for years, and when you began to apprentice under her older sister she turned her attention to law. Not really your thing—but the familiar excitement in her voice makes her lectures about land tax and trials _not the worst thing to fall asleep to_.

You reach over to tap her gently on the knee, and Terezi stops playing with your boots, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor next to you. “So what?” she says, leaning back to fix the fabric she keeps over her eyes. “Isn’t this what you’ve been working for? Your very own liege lord or whatever.”

“John’s not a liege lord,” you shoot back immediately. “He’s a dork. He cried when we found that huge spider in the chapel and didn’t stop until Serket caught it and set it free outside.”

“Pretty sure he’s a little past crying about bugs.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Neither do you.” Terezi flops upside down on your bed, her face next to yours. The ribbon slides off, and her eyes glare bloodshot and unseeing into every crevice of your brain. Women, _honestly_. “Karkat, this is it. You have a chance to do something great. Are you really getting cold feet over a kiddie crush—don’t look at me like that, I don’t care how young you were, I was _there_ —having some semblance of authority over you?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Terezi continues, oblivious. “It’s a win-win, dummy. You serve your kingdom, you reconnect with John. That’s more than you ever thought you could do.”

You hate when she’s right, so you sigh and reach for your bedroll. “I just. I don’t know if I’m…I don’t fucking know. Worthy?” Ugh. How dramatic can you get.

“Why, because you’re a sickly little prick from farm town number forty-three?”

You smack her, and Terezi slides off the bed with a cackle. “I’m not born into this shit,” you concede, tucking the wool of the blanket under your knees to roll it tighter. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You haven’t yet.”

“Yeah, by some goddamn miracle.”

Terezi makes a face. “Karkat.” She feels for the other end of the bedroll, pulling it taut. “The princess has confidence in you.”

“The princess has confidence in goldfish.”

“ _I_ have confidence in you,” Terezi presses: your rolling slowly inches you closer, until you bump foreheads. “John has no idea how good he’ll have it.”

She presses a chaste kiss into your hair, and you give her a shove in protest, but it does give you some reassurance. John Egbert is leagues above you, has been since you were both tiny spoiled things. It’s in your nature to prove yourself, and that’s all this is, isn’t it? Showing another kid what you have in store, with the additional technicality of balancing two nations in the process.

Peachy. Fucking. Keen.

You tie up your bedroll and tuck it under one elbow, and sling your pack with your sickles over your shoulder. Terezi fastens the scarlet ribbon over her eyes again and grabs her cane, stands with you as you shoulder open the door to your room. “What about the rest?”

“I’ll make two trips,” you call, already headed down the hall.

Terezi trails after you, amused. “You’re gonna make two trips all the way down to the marina?”

You shoot her a surprised look that she has zero way of seeing. “The marina? Aren’t we going by coach?”

“Karkat, Skaia is a week away by _ship_.”

You barely have time to process this when you crash into someone. You look up at the purple emblem of the royal navy, and then look up a little higher. “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Shit cousin reportin’ for duty.”

Terezi’s laugh follows you all the way outside.

*

The Amporas have been charged with Alternia’s naval force since long before you were born. Even aboard a ship, Eridan walks with a mix of the ramrod pride of aristocracy and the swagger of douchebags. You’ve known him long enough for it to piss you off significantly less than when you first met him, but his legs are still longer than yours and steadier at sea, and you scowl as you scramble to keep up with him and put your gear in your quarters.

Aside from the crew, most of the delegation bound for Sunshine and Rainbows Central seems to be in the same boat as you, in every sense of the word. The only other one not struggling for balance on the choppy waves of open water is Vriska, who immediately scales her way up to the crow’s nest and sticks her tongue out at Eridan with her feet dangling over the platform. You both stare up at her, and that obnoxious part of you suspects that she would have been a better candidate as ambassador to Skaia.

“She can’t stay still for two fuckin’ minutes,” Eridan says, and for a beat you wonder if you spoke aloud after all. “Dunno how Fef kept her in one place long enough to give her a job.”

You follow him below deck: he has to duck, and the two of you maneuver your way around crew and cargo until he opens a door. You toss your belongings on one of the two beds in the room. “So who’s my bunk buddy?”

“Great question. None a’ my business.” The door swings shut behind you, and the floor pitches under your feet. You flail wildly for balance, and Eridan’s arm is already out as if he’s used to people using his limbs as support beams. “Rations get handed out in the morning and evening. Chores rotate every other day. Use the blackout curtains for Sun glare when you need to, and trust me, you’ll need to. The head is portside. Ablutions are mandatory, if you start stinkin’ up my ship I’ll throw you overboard with soap myself. Any questions?”

You double over and throw up dangerously close to his boots.

Eridan swears a blue streak under his breath and tucks his foot away in a weirdly fluid motion. “Kar, really? Cronus is gonna kick my ass.”

He’s more tolerable when he sounds like the kid you grew up with. You grew up with a lot of kids on this ship, you realize—maybe it was to a sickly prick’s advantage, after all. “Humans have no business on water, what the fuck were we thinking, bottomless frigid fish piss…”

Eridan rolls his eyes. “I’ll send someone to clean it. Make yourself comfy, you’re in for a long fuckin’ week, from the looks of it.”

*

And you are. Merciful fucking moons, you are.

You throw yourself into chores to ignore the constant rolling of your stomach: you swab the deck, patch a sail, fix the rigging. Work is something you know and wear a lot better than the loose finery of your kingdom. Your bunkmate is a toothpick of a kid named Captor, and you find out he works high up in communications. He sleeps with his pillow over his head at night, and you bitch together about ship food while you haul supplies through the brig. Friendship is truly a beautiful goddamn thing.

On the fourth day, a storm hits the envoy, and you’re pretty certain this is the most miserable you’ve ever been. Your hair is plastered to your face with rain like some sort of wet dog. You take a little solace in the fact that Eridan looks about the same, raking his fingers through curling blond to push it away from his eyes while he secures you to the railing.

“This is stupid,” you yell over the wind.

“This is the sea, Kar,” he counters. His raised voice is rough, like he’s been swallowing salt water for years, and he probably has been, you feel like it would explain a lot. “You ain’t gonna win in a fight against her.”

“Then you’re stupid too!”

Eridan barks out something like a laugh. “Nothin’ I haven’t heard before,” he says, and moves to the next dripping bastard next to you. You dig in your heels and cling to the railing and wait for the storm to stop trying to toss you around like a rag doll.

When the weather finally passes, you want to crawl all the way back to Alternia and under your bed and sleep for twelve years. It’s Vriska who helps you extract yourself from the ship, her hair a bright tangled mess like some warrior goddess from books you spent too long looking at in the library when you were younger. She grins at you when you stop yourself from faceplanting into the deck with some admittedly sweet fucking footwork.

“Three more days, Vantas. Then the real fun begins.”

You nap through most of day five: you must look pathetic enough that no one objects. Captor shakes you awake halfway through the sixth day, mismatched eyes wide. “You gotta come see.” Excitement thoroughly massacres his sibilants.

You clamber above deck with him and immediately squeeze your eyes shut. It’s…bright. Ridiculously bright. You hear Captor rummage in his pockets, and the familiar weight of glasses hits the bridge of your nose. You force yourself to look through the tinted lenses.

“Holy fucking shit.”

The sky is alive over your heads. Pinks and teals and oranges like you’ve never seen mix and swirl between clouds on a cerulean backdrop. Colours you never knew the sky could even _be_. The Sun itself is a safe distance below the horizon, red and angry and new.

You’re starting to see why the Ampora brothers joined the navy the second they both turned eighteen.

“Holy fucking shit,” you repeat.

“Uh-huh,” Captor says beside you, entranced.

Another voice breaks your stunned admiration. “We’re here!” Vriska hollers from her perch halfway up the mast.

“We are?” You practically throw yourself at the side of the ship, squinting. Sure enough, shadows loom into view, great cliffside towers surrounded by pinprick ships. You’re on Skaia’s front step. John Egbert’s front step.

“Holy fucking shit.”

A third time. For posterity’s sake.

* * *

 

**> Dave: quickly retrieve arms from chest. **

You brace one foot against the straw dummy and tug a little harder. Short blades are not your favourite thing—they’re not even your fifth or sixth favourite thing, but your brother’s dropped enough hints about testing you when he comes home next that you’re better safe than sorry.

Something cracks dully, and you’re suddenly stumbling backwards, windmilling your arms. You land hard on your ass, with one intact blade and one snapped two inches from the hilt. Well. That’s neither safe nor sorry, you’re willing to bet.

You toss the broken one to the ground next to you — another for the collection, Dirk will probably tease you about it later — and let yourself flop backwards, squinting up at the Sun through your shades. Giant balls of fire in space don’t really agree with your eyes, or the rest of your rockin’ bod, for that matter.

The first time the prince had met you and your brother, he’d been barely knee-high to his father, and he’d pulled off your glasses with some sort of reverence you hadn’t thought possible outside of temples, and proudly pointed to his own patch-of-sky eyes and declared, “opposites.”

You’d pull down both moons for John Egbert, if he asked you to.

Someone enters your field of vision, a blessed shadow against your rapidly warming skin. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m literally always here,” you reply. “You’re slipping, Lalonde.”

Rose’s hand is extended; you take it and let her haul you to your feet. She’s dressed for court—brilliant orange robes with the Derse family crest at her throat. Your own purple moon sits pinned over your heart. The two of you share noble blood somewhere, but Rose is the one with all the elegance and poise. By the time the gods got around to you and Dirk, they had the good graces to make you look the part (albeit in their own, probably-an-inside-joke kind of way), but were a little stingy with the rest.

You brush dust off your sleeves. “So what’s the occasion?”

“A ship’s pulled in.” Rose is already walking, and you leave your weapons to keep up with her purposeful cadence. “Alternian. Roxy saw the flag.”

“Alternian? Really?” This is the first you’re hearing about any ship.

Rose seems to read your mind. It’s a bit of a habit with her. “I’m sure the prince knows about it, which means you’ll know about it as soon as we reach the hall.”

“He doesn’t tell me everything,” you protest automatically, fiddling with the collar of your hood. It’s not laying completely straight.

You reach a door to access inside from the yard, and you twist around Rose to open it for her out of habit. She smirks at you. “Really. Name one instance the heir to the throne you’ve been bumping elbows with since you were five has so unfairly refrained from telling you anything.”

The heels of your shoes snap smartly in tandem on the tiles. You shrug, suddenly a little embarrassed. “I mean, he hasn’t said anything about any title—”

“Honestly, Dave.” Rose stops dead to round on you, and you almost knock her over with your momentum. She reaches your shoulders, but with her arms crossed and her painted mouth turned down in a mocking pout Skaia’s leading strategist cuts an intimidating figure. “You’ve been training at court since before you could even _spell_ Prospit. John adores you. I see no reason why he won’t appoint you at his right hand the moment you’re a knight proper.”

“I’m sure they’re out there,” you say. You’re not a fan of self-pity—you’d rather be caught dead talking about your feelings within earshot of your brother, or anyone else at the castle, for that matter. Rose is the exception to the rule, and you hold her own secrets under your tongue as leverage. What else is family for, anyway?

“Arrogance is a better colour on you than self-deprecation, Strider,” she chides, turning to resume her pace, quick and graceful.

“I’ll stick to red, thanks.” You grin at nothing in particular.

The two of you serpentine around columns and duck through doorways. The castle is big enough to get lost in at worst, and ideal for _very_ in-depth hide-and-seek games at best. A large foyer gives way to the hall, with heavy golden curtains hanging from the ceiling and obscuring Skaia’s heart.

Rose lifts one hand to smooth your hair. You make a vaguely distressed noise and do it yourself; it doesn’t seem to faze her. “John adores you,” she repeats, and it makes something tighten in your chest. Your liege lord is a bright-eyed boy with hands that you never want to see bloodied, not if you can help it.

“I know,” you say, and you make yourself believe it.

“Then what’s standing in your way?”

*

The answer to that is, apparently, a handful of foreigners who are already in the foyer, awaiting an audience. You take your place by the entrance and wave a hand to Rose, who slips away to her own position. Waiting for the curtain to rise, you take in the newcomers.

Alternia doesn’t see the Sun. You know this because John told you stories about black days and cool summers, but this strange tableau in front of you lays it bare. Most of the envoy look your age (another story, this one about adults dividing and conquering, which means the most seasoned Alternian courtiers aren’t much older than Dirk), with skin that reminds you of ashes from a long-extinguished fire—a strange sort of grey you hadn’t thought possible on people, no matter how many times visiting dignitaries or traders dock at the shipyard and shield their faces from your sky.  

They’re standing in ranks and sized like an infantry division, and you don’t know enough about Alternians to know whether it’s intentional, which strikes you as funny for some reason. You recognize the one closest to you, a lanky boy with straight shoulders and the sharp zigzags of the navy on the epaulettes of a dark blue uniform tunic; eyes like amethysts frowning behind thick black frames; carefully styled platinum hair pulled back from a face that screams princely at anyone who is listening, and some who aren’t. He’s sailed over from Alternia half a dozen times now, you think. You’ve never seen him smile.

Furthest from you is another blonde you’ve seen before, about your height with boots to her knees and a deep red waistcoat; it ripples orange-yellow when she turns and fidgets, all restless energy. Her hair is in a high ponytail that settles along her spine in a proud snarl.  When she catches you looking at her, even from behind the safety of your shades, she waggles her fingers and grins: her teeth are like a shark’s, pointed and gleaming. It’s probably dumb, but you suddenly miss your blade still lying in the dirt outside. Tall girls have that effect on you. (Girls in general, really.)

Beside her is a scrawny kid in a loose pine-coloured cloak, secured at the waist with a sash of the same blue as the blond boy’s tunic. A navy crest of elaborate geometric design pins it together at his side, but he has another one on the other hip for what you assume is either a penchant for symmetry or pure shits and giggles. The hood is pulled back, revealing close-cropped black hair that threatens to flop down over bi-coloured glasses. His arms are covered in tight black sleeves, and he’s looking anywhere but at you: you stand a little straighter. The girl leans down to say something in his ear, and he blinks slow and curious before turning to the boy on his left.

This kid…this kid looks lost. His mouth is a grimace turned down at the corners, slate-grey eyes warily scanning the walls, the patterns on the floor, the tassels on the curtains. He’s the smallest of the four in front: face-to-face, he’d probably reach you mid-chest. His hair is an unruly coppery mop that curls where it touches his ears; freckles are spattered across his face like he strifed with a paintbrush and got his ass handed to him.

You can’t help but notice the painful resemblance in your attire. His clothing is a shrunken-down, Alternian foil to yours, interlaced with stripes of burgundy and unapologetically _red_. At his heart sits a scarlet crest; at his hips, twin sickles, curved and polished and sharp. He’s like your very tiny shadow.

You suddenly have a bad feeling about this.

When the black-haired boy relays the smug girl’s message, you watch those colourless eyes widen and finally drag over to you. You do your best to remain impassive. Your feet are growing roots below the mosaic tiles. The feeling is not showing signs of getting less bad.

“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” says the first and shortest Alternian knight you’ve ever laid eyes on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first long hs fic and my first time writing most of these kids, if you have feedback or comments id love to hear them!  
> hit us up about this au! [aryll](http://aryll.tumblr.com) / [auxanges](http://auxanges.tumblr.com) @ tumblr
> 
> the title is from a T.E. Lawrence verse from "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom" dedication #deep  
> 
>
>>   
>  _I loved you, so I drew these tides of_   
>  _Men into my hands_   
>  _and wrote my will across the_   
>  _Sky in stars_   
>  _To gain you Freedom, the seven_   
>  _Pillared worthy house,_   
>  _that your eyes might be_   
>  _Shining for me_   
>  _When I came_   
>    
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two pairs of eyes behind their respective glasses are on you. You swallow down the sandpaper in your throat and jerk your chin up, leaving your self-doubt crushed to the best of your ability under your foot. “If it please you,” you start, and your own voice ricochets across the halls, harsh and not from this place, “—if it please you, your Grace, I—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who left comments or feedback!! even if i didnt reply know that i saw it and probably grinned like a tool at my screen  
> john actually shows up in this chap, amazing

**> Karkat: Who is this asshole.**

No, really, who the fuck is he? 

The boy at the entrance could pass as a statue or a spectre, with bad taste in eyewear and a build Sollux would describe as “seventy-six percent leg,” butchered consonants notwithstanding. He’s too tall for his own good. He’s too _pale_ for his own good—all snowy skin and hair to match, he looks like a corpse—but a corpse with unnervingly familiar stances and finery. In the absence of a weapon, his hands are neatly folded behind his back: his lips pressed into a thin, practiced line. 

After a minute of you gawking like an idiot, he opens his mouth. “You know, one of us is gonna have to change.” 

Your friend snorts beside you to cover up a laugh. _Et tu_ , Captor? You scowl at them both in succession. “Only one I have to answer to is behind the curtain, kid.” 

You can see his eyebrows shoot up ever so slightly over the tops of his shades. They’re thick, bone-white like the rest of him. A ghost-boy. “What a fun fuckin’ coincidence that is, then,” he replies, all easy bravado that grates along your spine, between your shoulder blades. 

Oh. _Oh_. 

The realization you’ve been steadfastly trying to ignore since you saw him rings between your ears. Of course. Of fucking course you wouldn’t be the only one here, what were you even thinking? You _weren’t_ thinking, that was your problem. This is a bit of a recurring theme with Past You, and as a result you’re not exactly his biggest fan. You turn to stomp out in a huff, to get all the way back to Alternia and give Feferi an _incredibly_ stern talking-to. 

Eridan’s hand shoots out and grabs your hood, pulling you back into rank. Something squeaks—it’s either you or your boots, and you’re really fucking hoping it’s the latter. You kick him in the shins: the ghost-boy doesn’t react. 

Your internal monologue comes back to you, sounding suspiciously like Terezi. _It’s in your nature to prove yourself_. The princess knows this as well as you do—she probably had full fucking knowledge of this mess, and threw you to the dogs hoping your fight-or-really-fight instincts would kick in. It’s a little annoying when she keeps being right. Maybe it’s a royalty quirk or some bullshit. 

Fine. Fucking fine. You were sent over to play this game, so might as well play to win. You exhale, long and through a mouthful of incisors. “So if you serve,” you finally grit out, “do you act like an entitled twat to everyone you cross paths with to compensate? Because I’ve been around my share of those and I’m not super keen on adding to the pile.” 

The ghost-boy’s countenance wavers a tiny bit when he hesitates: you spot the tells in his joints, at the elbows and knees and jaw. Finally he crosses the threshold and stands in front of you. Your head is forced up to look at him, and he pulls off his glove and extends a hand. 

You stare at his hand like he’s dunked it in sewage and slapped your mother with it. It takes a count to five and a spiritual kick in the ass from the Gamzee Makara who lives in your head to get you to shake it. 

Hazed heavens, his hands are fucking _warm_. 

“Dave Strider,” he says. His voice rests easily in the baritone timbre of the confident, and his vowels are slow, bottomless things. You think it marks him as a southerner, but both your Skaian geography and your give-a-shit meter are dangerously low on resources. 

“Karkat Vantas,” you reply, followed by, “what the fuck kind of name is Dave?”

If this bothers the ghost-boy, he doesn’t show it, nor does he let go of your hand. Your skin burns beneath fabric and leather. “It means ‘beloved,’” says Dave, a little smugly, like he’s had the answer prepared since you dragged your sorry ass off the ship wanting to kiss the first rock you saw. “What the fuck kind of name is Karkat?”

“It means ‘infinitely better than you will ever be, on any level ever, _Strider’”_ —you drag your vowels across the polished tile in a crude imitation and are rewarded with a slight dusting of pink at his ears—“‘so don’t get any funny ideas about job-stealing during your nightly excursions of your head up your own ass.’”

That gives him pause. “Job stealing?”

Your snarky and admittedly uncourtly retort dies in your throat as the curtain parts enough to reveal a floating head between its folds. 

“Hello!” it says, along with “his Grace will see you now,” and “Dave why are you holding hands with that poor boy?” 

Dave drops your hand like it’s on fire, and it may as well be at this point. He takes two steps back and turns on his heel, a smooth, choreographed thing that makes you want to gag. At the same time, the curtain lifts, and the head rejoins the body of a girl in black-and-green robes, gold crescents dangling from her ears beneath her hood. She glides away somewhere unseen (no heralds or booming voices, you’re not in Alternia anymore and it’s becoming painfully clearer by the second) and you’re left to march yourselves forward like a bunch of fucking delinquents, kids leading kids to meet kids. 

What a world you live in. 

Dave trails after your party, a red-white shadow at your periphery. The great hall of Skaia is full of light, unforgiving against your still-adjusting eyes, and you swear you can feel your pupils narrow to needlepoints. It’s filtered in through stained windows, violets and yellows and blues depicting stories you only catch glimpses of. Your companions are as curious as you are, unsure where to look, or for how long. 

But you, you know exactly where. 

John Egbert is at once everything you remember and everything new. He sits on the throne with his legs neatly crossed under him, of all things, as if the lot of you are at a goddamn tea party. His tunic is a rich blue, spun from the sky itself and woven through with western winds at the hem. His hood is pulled up: unruly locks of hair circle his features like a jet-black halo. A collar sits heavy and gold across his thin shoulders, twin moons flanking the kingdom’s sigil at his chest. Striped tights (tights!) peek out from beneath the tunic, with tailored boots hugging his calves. 

Where Feferi was built in depths, pulled to the surface with the tides and smoothed over by seawater, John looks like he was stitched together from clouds and dropped among mortals. 

You’re staring. You’re definitely staring. When you finally wrench your gaze away, everyone is on one respectful knee. The ground is a cold mercy through your breeches as you follow suit. Out of the corner of your eye, Dave is also genuflecting, his face lifted and alight, all boyish wonder and…devotion. 

_Kiddie-crush_ , nags Terezi’s no-nonsense voice in your thick skull. 

Your dislike for Dave borders precariously on the nauseating. 

One by one, the crew are dismissed, and your freakishly ambitious friends take turns stepping forward. You feign interest at your boot and let their voices wash over you as they rise in succession—Eridan’s dockside drawl bastardizing his court standing, Vriska loud and unapologetic, discordant with her formality, Sollux all careful, deliberate enunciations with his heel tapping a habitual heartbeat beside you. 

Your pulse is a loud thing between your ears. Everyone here knows what they’re doing, the cadence of their steps unflinching as they’re directed to their duties. You’re filled with a sudden, annoying desire to follow them, to leech off whatever certainty they have. You hate keeping still—it allows your traitorous brain time to imagine your shortcomings. 

You give your internal monologue a Makara-worthy throttling in time to hear Captor’s metronomic ONE-two gait recede, and then all that’s left to do is get to your feet. Fuck, your leg’s half-asleep. You stand straight, step forward out of rank (not that there are ranks left to speak of). With a start, you realize Dave’s moved, too, angled himself to watch both you and the prince in silence. Skaian children need to learn to make some damn _noise_ before you burst a blood vessel.

Two pairs of eyes behind their respective glasses are on you. You swallow down the sandpaper in your throat and jerk your chin up, leaving your self-doubt crushed to the best of your ability under your foot. “If it please you,” you start, and your own voice ricochets across the halls, harsh and _not from this place_ , “—if it please you, your Grace, I—”

“Karkat!” John exclaims, eyes wide and unbelievably _blue_ and delighted, and you feel at once ten feet tall and struck utterly stupid. 

“Yeah—yes. Yes, hi. John.” His name comes out half a question — _John?_ — as you wrestle between your drilled customs and the call of the informal that seems to surround the boy on the throne. He remembers you. He remembers _you_ , Vantas the preacher’s son, he’s seen Serkets and Amporas and _Peixes_ , and you outrank them all, right now, with the way he leans forward on his haunches in fascination like a god spat you out right there on his shiny fucking floor. 

To the side, you feel Dave’s shielded eyes on you like branding irons. 

And that’s the magic touch, the lighting of the proverbial fuse to your gauntlet-thrown cannon. You could shoot to the moons at will on adrenaline alone. You’ll show this pretty-boy princeling and his protégé how it’s _done_ , thank you. 

“It’s been so long!” John is saying: laughter colours his tone, high and clear like a church bell. “Wow, look at you—a knight, I can’t believe it!”

“Not technically,” you reply, and to your delayed dread Dave objects the same. It makes John turn his head, amused, and Dave’s shoulders straighten up-back-down so quickly you think they’ll dislocate. 

“Karkat, you’ve met Dave, right?” he asks, like he can’t reach out and fucking cut the tension with one of your sickles. 

“I’ve had the pleasure,” you answer through your teeth. Dave flashes you his own, stupid-white and rounded. Your genetics are like razors in these soft halls: sharp and angled and charcoal shaded and diamond-cut. You hate Dave Strider more with each pump of fuck-shit-up juice through your veins. 

John, for his part, looks like he’s pulled off the greatest practical joke in existence. “Good! But you have to play nice while you’re a guest here.” 

You resist the very strong urge to flip him off, shining presence be damned. “Respectfully, your Grace, I’m not here to play.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and this—this is new, the spark in sun-sapphire eyes, the knife’s edge of his smile. Royal blood runs unfiltered through this boy. It’s a blinding thing. “I’m counting on it, actually. Feferi’s been singing your praises for months.”

It’s your turn to have your ears grow hot. “Honoured as shi—honoured. Your Grace.”

“You won’t disappoint me, Karkat.” It’s not a question, not an order: it’s a certainty, a spear of assurance directly through your ribcage and you don’t want to let him down, never ever. _Alternia first_ seems like a faraway memory now, but a memory that brought you here in front of him. You tuck it away for safekeeping. 

You dip your head, part nod, part bow, all wonder. “Yes, your Grace—John. GraceJohn.”

He laughs for real this time, short but genuine. he adds, “You too, Dave,” a strange sort of tenderness on the name that makes the ghost-boy cock his head like a bird before nodding, looking very much like how your insides feel. Neither of you are too sure on what you’re agreeing upon, just that 1) you’re not going to like it and 2) you’re going to kick his ass at it anyway. Because you can. You’re Karkat fucking Vantas and you have shit to _do_ , and the southerner will learn it one way or another. 

“You must be exhausted.” John leans back in his throne and waves a hand, unhurried. “Dave will show you where you’ll be staying.”

You see him frown. “But I have to—”

“Dave will show you where you’ll be staying,” he repeats, easy smile like a snare, and Dave nods again and the traveller was wrong, _Feferi_ was never the siren here.

John calls, “see you tomorrow, Karkat,” and the two of you find yourselves alone, pounding hearts full of purpose with nothing in your hands to show for it. 

You wonder if the feeling ever wears off; part of you hopes it doesn’t. 

Dave speaks first. “Come on, then.” 

You follow him, your footfalls noisy and accusing against his soundless ones. Your tunics billow around the both of you in crimson waves, and for one long moment you could drown in the promises you made yourselves. 

Fucking symbolism. You need a serious nap. 

* * *

**> Dave: lead the douche parade, party of two.**

You’re grateful to leave the Great Hall when it’s all said and done. John’s left you with more questions than answers, and if the confused scowl on Karkat’s face is anything to go by, you’re not the only one. 

You lead him out a different way you came in: another velvet curtain, this one a deep plum colour, gives way to a white marble staircase. The steps are worn, winding things that you’ve come to know well. Karkat doesn’t yet, and after the second slip against uneven tiles you hear his hand hit the railing with an angry _ting_. 

On the first landing, he breaks the silence. “Care to refresh my memory on what the ever-loving fuck that was all about?”

Wouldn’t you like to know. 

Karkat continues, inspired. “Nobody told me—nobody fucking _informed_ me this shit was gonna go down. All I got was ‘ooh, Karkat, you’ll be a knight for Sunshine Boy, make your kingdom proud, you naïve little twerp! Also I’m a scheming little selkie who’s as ass-backwards tricky as my mom!’” His voice climbs two octaves in a grating falsetto; you can practically _hear_ him bat his eyelashes. 

“That sounds a little treasonous,” you say over your shoulder. 

“What? No, she—ugh, forget it.” Karkat’s legs are shorter than yours: you can nearly fit two of his steps between every one of your own. “The point, Strider, is that my wild goose chase to this sun-plagued hell rock was complicated enough before you came waltzing in—”

You round on him on the second landing, your cloak fanning out around you with the speed of it in a way that would probably look pretty cool if you weren’t a little irritated. “Look. Carrot—”

“Karkat,” he bristles. 

“—that’s what I said.” You smirk a little at the boy’s short fuse. He’ll make you look downright angelic, at this rate. “The only one who did any waltzing here, or whatever the fuck passes as dance in Alternia, is you. I was doing fine on my own. I would have gotten the position within the year, come coronation day, and John—”

“ _John_ pulled the fucking wool over your eyes!” Karkat counters, a whisper-shout like he’s concerned for his own volume. “News flash, kid. He’s royal. A _prince_. Princes sit out of reach and tug on your strings like a fucking marionette to watch you dance for them.”

But you see it. Even as he says it, he doesn’t look sure—Karkat’s attitude towards royalty is probably not without reason, but whatever he knows about John from his own experience is at odds with the rest of him. You watch it play out on his face, in the rapid movement of his eyes. 

Your next words come out a little softer. A confession. “I have no idea what he’s planning,” you admit, “but I swore myself to John years ago. We grew up together. I know him.” 

Karkat, you’re learning quickly, is on some sort of permanent defensive. “Swearing your life to someone,” he says, “is a very stupid thing to do.”

“I know him,” you repeat, firmly. It buries his argument beneath you as you turn again. “You’ll get a stitch if you keep talking while we go up.”

He lapses back into heavy silence. You feel his eyes on the back of your neck, and it makes your hair stand up where it touches the top of your collar. 

You know John. This is a blessing, usually, a bright spark of potential in your life since you and your brother found yourselves at the castle gates. But it’s a crutch unto itself—John is as much of a puzzle as he is an open book, an honest face set with unreadable eyes. Once, twice, a hundred times, you’ve had the urge to take him apart, to uncover his machinations like you do with the antique pocketwatches Dirk sends you from his travels. 

It’s a complicated thing, you and John. You’re starting to get a little antsy for the day it'll all be clear to you. 

As the stairs even out and you set down the hallway, you can’t shake the feeling that tomorrow won’t be that day. You’re not holding your breath for the next day, either. 

Sigils on ribbons hang from the doorknobs, alternating red or blue needlework on a black backdrop. The Alternian royal emblem is stamped on the bottom of each, a blue seal imprinted with a startling shade of pink. You slow your pace until Karkat falls into step beside you to find his door. His face is drawn: his gaze moves from one ribbon to another in an almost lazy way, his adrenaline spent and left on the staircase. 

“When did you last sleep?” You ask, before you can stop yourself. 

Karkat eyes you warily. “Strider, I don’t even fucking know what time it is _now_. The combination big shit orb in the sky and icy toilet bowl of death screwed my internal clock to hell and back with interest.”

“I have an external clock you can borrow any time, Canker,” you inform him. 

“ _Karkat_.”

“Correct. So since you’re dying to know, it’s midafternoon. You’re not expected anywhere to my knowing until tomorrow, so you can stay in your room and sleep or cry or whatever it is you do back home.” 

You don’t miss how the proud slope of his shoulders relaxes the slightest bit at “sleep.” In the waning light of day so foreign on his features, he looks younger. It does not make you pity him. 

Karkat stops at a door with red thread woven in curves and ovals; all the smoothness you’ve yet to see him possess. “This is mine.” One thumb traces the stitching, and you see the same symbol on his bracers, among those you don’t recognize. 

You reach around him to twist the knob and push the door open with the very tips of your fingers. Karkat’s belongings have already been brought up: a simple trunk bearing the same ensign sits at the foot of the bed, clothes and spare blankets laid out on the mattress. A bedroll and pack, both brown and worn with use at the straps, sit on a chair next to the unlit fireplace. You point out the ensuite bathroom, and Karkat nods along as he unhooks his sickles from his belt. He absently spins them once before setting them on the bed. 

The windows have thick dark curtains over them. You move to open them, but Karkat’s sharp _“Don’t”_ has this…urgency that makes you falter, one hand still raised. 

You only shrug. “If I may make a suggestion,” you say, nodding to the clock on the mantle, “open them after seven. I know I’m a dazzling thing to look at so your eyesight’s pretty fucked either way, but the moons will be easier on you to start with.”

His eyes narrow to silver slits at your gesture, but you’re both weaponless, now. For a moment, there’s a strange sort of calm, the eye of a hurricane before the chaos blows in. The both of you are here for a shared purpose, and no intention to let the other take it from you. 

He’s the one to break the silence the second time, too. “Do you people eat around here, or do you just jerk yourselves off to the colours of the rainbow for sustenance?”

(It’s got a pretty small eye, this hurricane.)

“Dinner will be brought to your room in an hour. Ring the bell by the mantle if you need anything else.”

The look on his face tells you he’s not planning on needing anything else. The look on his face also tells you if you don’t skedaddle in the next minute he’ll cut off your head and dropkick it back down the stairs. 

“That’s all, then.” You offer up a sarcastic salute. “Sweet dreams, new boy.”

You’re in the doorway when he calls, “You won’t get special treatment because you know John better.”

The smile you give him makes you grateful for your shades. It feels tight on your face. “I never said otherwise, did I?”

You close the door behind you and don’t look back. 

*

Your quarters are at the very top of the final set of stairs. A long time ago, when you were still a page, you shared this room with your brother, and sat up late talking about everything you could do in the heart of Skaia. Dirk had been the first to go away, following the prince’s cousin on his travels as a personal aide; you did your share of studying abroad, too. When you’d returned to the castle, pages’ plainclothes traded for the ambitious finery of a knight, you’d discovered your room had been left much the same as it had looked when you left. 

One of the windows is open, letting in the cooler air of summer evenings and the glow of the pinking sky. You lean your forearms against the stone and look down, down, out over the palace gardens, to the docks and the open expanse of the sea. Where Karkat came from. You try to imagine how far away Alternia is from here: further than you’ve been, maybe further than you’ll ever go. He’s seen more of the world than you and his tiny ass has only been here for all of four hours. 

Something lands on your head, talons digging into your scalp and messing up your hair. You puff out a sigh and reach up: the crow takes the hint and settles on your thumb instead, and you twist your hand to bring it to eye level. It blinks at you and ruffles its feathers. There’s a trinket in its beak—it nips you once when you put out your other hand before dropping it into your palm. A ring, beaten copper and worn smooth on the inside. You hold it up to the light. 

“He likes you.”

The acoustics of your room make the voice carry over to you like a secret, heady and intimate as incense. “He’d better,” you reply, petting it with one careful finger, “he’s stolen enough of my food to feed a small village at this point.” 

You release the crow when it flaps its wings impatiently and watch it disappear into the gathering dark. There’s a pause, and then you can’t bring yourself to turn when you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

John moves the way shadows do, soundless and free. You feel his gaze on your back, waiting patiently for you to face him, because you always face him, in the end. “It wasn’t to vex you.”

“Still a little vexed,” you mutter, and then you want to smack yourself. You’re not a little kid having a tantrum, Strider, gods help you, you’re trying to plead your case to this—this prince. 

_Princes sit out of reach._

“Dave.”

You make yourself turn. 

He’s in your doorway, barely across the threshold of your room at all, like he needs permission, like he couldn’t just decide it was his room now and that he’d paint it gold, but John’s never been that way, has he? No, instead he eyes you with a sad sort of smile, like he’s genuinely apologetic. It’s borderline blasphemy. You bite the inside of your cheek and don’t look away. 

“It was part of the agreement,” he says, and the sincerity of his voice floods your lungs, your throat. “Feferi asked me to keep it from the both of you, and I don’t know, she doesn’t seem like the kind of person you should say ‘no’ to, and I really wanted to tell you, Dave, really…”

John rambles when he’s unsure. He’s done this since you’ve known him, a habit you can recite from memory, like the way his eyes search the ceiling when he’s trying to remember something, or the faraway frown he gets when things weigh heavier on him than his crown jewels. Your best friend is a boy, your best friend is a god, and you were brought into his house for reasons you cannot comprehend. Your heart is on your sleeve for him, your broken swords offered up to him by the hilts. 

“Alternia is a powerful ally to have,” John is saying. He moves closer, shy and plain-faced, youthful; you feel old and childish all at once next to him. “Having Karkat at court is going to be a good thing. I have faith in that.”

“Your faith isn’t something you should give away easily,” you reply, testing every word as you say it. 

“You don’t have to tell me that.” John holds out his hands, cupped together like he’s praying. You obediently drop the ring into them. He spins it between his fingers, transfixed: the setting Sun makes the dulled metal glint off the frames of his glasses. 

You rub your eyes under your shades with one hand. “I’m just—”

“—looking out for me. Like you’re trained to.” John grins at you briefly before turning to put the bird’s gift with the rest. (You keep them all on your nightstand, in a tiny wooden box Jake made you when you were twelve.) “I know, Dave, but—I suppose this is my way of looking out for you.”

You weren’t expecting that at all. “What? How?”

“Dave.” Every time John says your name, it’s like he’s forming it for the first time, careful and new, like he doesn’t want to break the vowels or bite his lip on the fricative. It aches something fierce. “You’re my best friend in the world.”

“I know,” you say, and _that_ aches, too, because it’s true. You’re thick as thieves, toeing the lines of duty Skaian court has set out for you for years, waiting to be thrown into your rightful places. 

John’s facing you again: Dirk once told you that Skaia’s heir keeps his soul in his eyes. You had told him that was a stupid thing to say and didn’t make any sense, but what the fuck did you know, back then. What do you know now, except the boy in front of you? That’s what you had told Karkat, wasn’t it? You’re a pretty terrible liar—you wonder if he’s caught on yet. 

You’d hate to give him the upper hand so early on. 

“It wouldn’t do,” John says, “to appoint you without trials first. The court wouldn’t like it.” He laughs a little, runs his fingers through his hair: his hood is pulled back, it’s made his hair curl every which way. “I wouldn’t like it, either. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if you didn’t get to show off a little.”

“So my trial is four feet ten inches of Alternian brat?” 

John makes a pointing gesture that you take to mean ‘you bet your sweet serving ass that’s what it is.’ “Karkat is a force to be reckoned with. He won’t go easy on you! But I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t have faith in you, you know.” 

“I know,” you echo, juggling trains of thought with the dexterity of a drunken circus troupe. 

“So trust me, okay, Dave?” 

Your name again, soft, always soft. It sharpens your focus back to John. “Okay. Yes.” You clear your throat, put a little more _hell yeah_ into your voice. “Yes.”

He seems satisfied. “I have to go. There’s more to arrange before you and Karkat can really get to know each other.”

“Let me try to contain my excitement.” 

Your prince extends a hand, forms a fist. You bump yours against it, paler and bigger than his, before bringing it to your lips by the wrist and pressing a kiss to Prospit’s ring. John takes the last of the sunset with him when he bids you goodnight, and you’re alone and unsure of tomorrow. 

But you trust him. Maybe it is foolish, but maybe Karkat’s cynical attitude was amplified on the ship ride over. Time will tell; time has a way of telling you lots of things. 

You lean on the windowsill again and listen to the crows until moonrise. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave stands in one fluid move, turning smartly to face you in the centre of the ring. The chatter of the advisors dies down around the prince. You both shake, your fingers wrapped around each other’s forearms. Dave smirks a little as you break away. “Hope you dance better than you talk, new boy.”
> 
> You hate him. You _hate_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 hits goddamn!! thank you all v much for your feedback and kudos i'm glad everyone is as stoked about this au as i am lol  
> as always, big thank you to [marbles](http://aryll.tumblr.com) for permission to write and for betaing/generally being fantastic

**> Karkat: Rise. Shining optional.**

You wake up gracelessly, disoriented by dreams sticking to the insides of your eyelids. They’re vivid and colourful, here, powered by nerves and adrenaline and a bed comfier than what you’re used to. It leaves you jittery. 

You half-stumble out of bed, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. It’s a little before daybreak: you fell asleep ridiculously early last night, after a cold bath to shake the last of the sea salt from your hair, the curtains pulled back in a begrudging concession to Dave’s advice. The moons still hang low and fading in the sky; the latter is already a pallid grey that reminds you of your own skin. The floor feels cool beneath your feet. 

Today, your work begins. 

By the time you throw on a shirt and pants, breakfast has been left outside your room. You eat quickly while doing your best to make your hair not look like complete shit. The fruit on the plate isn’t one you’re familiar with, but it’s as bright as everything else in Skaia, just as sweet. You finish eating and draw the curtains just as the first rays of Sun reach high enough to assault your eyes: you leave a crack between them, a deal with yourself. What kind of knight would you be if you kept squatting in the dark? A fucking lame one, that’s what.

There’s a knock on the door not long after that, as you’re putting clothes and books away with careful thought. It’s the girl from yesterday, the one who brought you all in to see John. She’s in similar clothes as you saw her in last, the brilliance of Skaian court right down to her shoes. You feel a little underdressed. 

“Good morning, Karkat!” she says, and you’re sure you never told her your name, so she must come from someone who knows you. “Sleep well?” 

“Like a baby on fucking opiates,” you retort, attempting to put on your boots while holding the door open with one hand. “Can I help you, uh…?”

“Jade.” She waves hello belatedly. “His Grace requests your presence in the gallery.”

“The where?”

Jade giggles. It’s not an unkind sound. “I’ll take you, don’t worry! He wants to talk to you before the first trial, that’s all.” 

John wants to talk to you. Your spine straightens on its own, every millimetre of height you can muster. (She’s still taller than you.) “Should I bring anything?”

“Just your sunny disposition!”

“I mean, anything that I actually _have_.”

Another giggle: Jade shakes her head, her hair a black curtain that reminds you of Feferi, and for one breath you feel a longing for home. Your hands burn for something to hold, something to _do_. “You’re fine the way you are. It won’t be too long. I’m sure you’re eager to get underway.”

_Underway with what?_ you don't ask, and instead follow Jade to meet your liege lord for the second time. 

*

The gallery, like the rest of the castle, is open and inviting. High windows line the hall, beams of natural light so new in your life that you find yourself raising a hand to your eyes to look at them anyway. You’ll get used to it—you get used to everything, it’s part of what makes Peixes think the Sun shines out of your ass in place of Alternian sky. Portraits of people you don’t recognize hang on the walls, legacies on oil and canvas. You crane your neck to look up at them. You wonder, maybe a bit naïvely, if you’ll end up there someday, in a gallery that’s not even your own. 

“They’re a little scary, don’t you think?” 

Your hand flies to your hip as you whirl around for a weapon that isn’t there. John raises his hands in mock surrender before relaxing. You follow suit, a little sheepish. “You know how to make an entrance. And by an entrance I mean none at all.” As you say it, it occurs to you that Jade is gone. Fucking again? It’s like this whole kingdom missed the memo that footsteps are supposed to be loud. 

John flashes you an impish smile. “Sorry. And by sorry I mean not at all.” He’s donning blue again, a tailored coat accented in gold, riding boots creeping up his legs to his knees. If you felt underdressed in front of the girl, you feel stark fucking naked in front of the heir apparent. He looks up to the portraits and points with one slender hand. “That one’s my grandmother.” 

You follow his gaze. “The old queen?” 

“Yes. She had a bit of a reputation.”

“As a shit disturber? She looks kind of like a shit disturber.” John raises an eyebrow at you, and you quickly add, “I mean—respectfully, of course, gods keep her soul, her shit disturbing soul—”

He interrupts you with a laugh. “I’m pulling your leg, Karkat. You can relax.” 

‘Relax’ isn’t really in your lexicon, and while you’re also pretty fluent in Low Alternian, it’s not in that one, either. 

John shrugs one shoulder and continues. “She had amazing stories. I kind of hope I’ll add to them, you know? Maybe have my own kind of creepy face and stories up on the walls.”

He looks over at you, then, _really_ looks, and his eyes are even bluer up close—brighter than the Sun outside, deeper than the sea that brought you to him in the first place. “I want you to be in them, you know! That’s why you’re here. I want you at court, Karkat.”

You’re stunned into silence. John isn’t much taller than you (his boots have a bit of a heel, and you have to resist the urge to stand on tiptoes), but he fills the gallery with something tangible and unlike anything you have back home. 

Words trip over themselves on their way from your brain to your mouth, until all that comes out is a clumsy, “Strider—”

“Dave, too. He’s been here since I was little, he works harder than anyone I’ve ever met.” John’s gaze is on the paintings again, a little lost in thought. “Feferi tells me you also work hard.”

“Feferi tells you a lot of things,” you say. 

That makes him laugh again, softly; a private thing for the two of you and the paintings to hear. “I promise they’re not all bad. I do think you belong here, Karkat, really.”

You don’t tell John you haven’t had a sense of belonging in a long time. Instead, “You can fucking count on it.”

He nods once, a trained dip of his head. Without the hood, he looks young, altogether too boyish to be running things and juggling responsibilities, but your princess does that, too, doesn’t she? Your fate dangles from the hands of children. Fuck’s sake, you’re a child, too, hands stretched over your head for something you feel is yours to take. 

John’s hand on your arm startles you a little. “You must be itching to get started.”

“Severe case of get-the-fuck-on-with-it pox,” you agree, attempting to shake the hair from your eyes without moving John’s hand away. He pulls back nonetheless, fixing his glasses with a grin. 

“Tradition calls for thirteen weeks of trials,” he says, and while his smile stays on his face his voice slips into something a little more serious, a little more formal; a little more _princely_. “Every week involves four days of skill sets, turns at court, joint and private lessons.”

You’d love to know who pulled those numbers out of their ass. “That’s a loaded as shit schedule.”

He opens his mouth again, and you hold up a hand, emboldened by the same energy you felt yesterday finally awakening in your bones. “I’m pulling your leg.”

John blinks, then beams at you, all kinds of radiant. “You’ll be summoned in a half hour. Gather your things and wait for instructions.”

It’s a little surreal, how much authority he carries in a smile, light and airy like it’s nothing. John Egbert is a goddamn mystery.

He holds out a hand, and when you press a kiss to his ring (Alternia is all bows and salutes, you had to read about this for yourself) the gold is cool against your lips. 

“And Karkat!” he calls, making you look over your shoulder. “Good luck!”

You don’t smile back, but you do your best to not look like a complete dick, either. “Luck’s not for me, your Grace.”

*

In your room, you parse your time into three neat categories: ten minutes to have a crisis over what you should be wearing (you were told shit-all, what’s the appropriate level of prissy douchefabric for the day’s agenda, et fucking cetera), ten minutes to draft a quick letter to the Pyropes (“It’s brighter than six hells here, not that you’d really know, hope you and Latula haven’t strangled each other without me”), and the rest of the time to rile yourself up like a toddler past curfew. 

True to John’s word, you’re summoned just as your mantle clock chimes a funny little tune. Jade again: she looks over your gear and gives an encouraging nod. “Ready?”

You’re getting a little tired of people asking you that. 

She leads you back through hallways, down sets of stairs you don’t recall seeing yesterday. This place is a maze—you try to map it out in the back of your mind, with varying degrees of success. Light and colour splash on the walls through more windows: you keep your eyes forward as best as you can. Like fuck you’re going to wear shades indoors like a prick, one of those roaming the halls is already too many. 

You reach another open space, round like an arena, with a high domed ceiling and creeping arches along its limestone walls. Your surprise must show on your face—this isn’t the kind of thing you’d expect from a kingdom that produced something as soft-spoken as John, but a kingdom it remains. You’re almost grateful that part of the castle has a layout that feels more familiar to you. It’s warmer here, darker, a very different sort of energy than the great hall or the gallery. If asked, you might call it a compromise; somewhere neither Skaia nor Alternia can completely claim as their own, not while the both of you are here. 

And he _is_ here, too. Dave Strider stands talking with some other people in monochrome garb, a sore red thumb against their black-and-white uniforms. His tunic is short and form-fitting—hemmed for combat training, Latula has a similar one back home—and his pants cling tight to his legs and tuck neatly into combat boots. He looks like he belongs here. 

Your gut twists uncomfortably even as your feet march you forward towards him. 

He turns away from his conversation partners, who scuttle away to a series of chairs. “Morning, new boy. Pleasant dreams?” 

“Cut the crap,” you retort, cursing your genetics for the way he towers effortlessly above you. Even with his arms crossed in what you recognize as a defensive stance from years of dealing with stubborn douches and introverts, Dave cuts an imposing figure. It does a great job of pissing you off bright and early. You jerk your head to the checkered clowns murmuring among themselves. “Who are they? Voyeurism a thing in this country?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have strife rings in Alternia, land of murder moms? Home of chop-you-up children? _Realm_ of—”

“Bleeding gods, shut _up_ , of course we fucking do, but…” You trail off. But nothing. You’ve done your share of attending events like this—a lot louder, a little bloodier (Terezi loves to sit in the front row of the stands, but doesn’t love to wash her clothes), but your participation has been limited to feast days and evaluations. But technically, this is an evaluation too, isn’t it? 

As if to answer your question, John enters without fanfare, flanked by a blonde in navy blue combat gear carrying wooden sparring swords. You are _not_ a sword person, but your sickles are obediently removed and set on a chair. Dave, just like yesterday, is weaponless, and his arms drop to his sides when John addresses you both. 

“I spoke to my father,” he says. “He agreed that to help Karkat feel a little more at ease”—Dave’s mouth twitches, but if he looks at you you can’t see it behind his glasses—“the trials will be held in closed court. Some of Dad’s advisors are here, but the rest is mine to oversee.” John winks, like you’re all in on a secret. “So long as that’s okay, of course.”

“Of course,” you both reply, tandem reflexes scrambling to please. 

John’s smile widens. “Strife rules apply today. Three clean hits for a win.” As he speaks, the blonde tosses you a weapon with a grin: you need both arms to catch it, clumsy with its weight. Dave snatches his from the air above his head (“Not _that_ tall, Lalonde Senior”) and twirls it in his hand, testing it. The certainty of his actions makes your own grip tighten. 

You give the wooden sword a few experimental swings. John’s eyes follow you as you measure out paces in the ring, equal parts curious and calculating. He settles in a chair of his own: you watch as Dave steps closer and kneels down to say something to him. John laughs, and leans forward to bump foreheads with your opponent. Dave’s gloved hand moves to brace the back of his neck. 

You’re burning where John touched you earlier. You need to move. You need—

John waves his hand. “Positions, then!” 

Dave stands in one fluid move, turning smartly to face you in the centre of the ring. The chatter of the advisors dies down around the prince. You both shake, your fingers wrapped around each other’s forearms. Dave smirks a little as you break away. “Hope you dance better than you talk, new boy.”

You hate him. You _hate_ him. 

There’s a strike, somewhere, like a hammer, or maybe just your own heartbeat. John’s voice is a quiet undercurrent to the adrenaline between your ears. You let your gaze wander, lightning quick. 

John meets your eyes, leaning on the armrest of his chair, legs crossed and intent. Blue as ever. Sea meets sky meets Karkat Vantas. 

You raise your sword with both arms and charge forward.

* * *

**> Dave: Strife!**

Karkat flies at you with more speed than should be allowed for someone that short. You bring up your sword to block: the blow glances right, and you twist away on one heel to keep your side clear. He’s already swinging again, a wide upward arc that forces you into a parry. Your swords crack together in loud, hollow echoes around you—fifty Karkats, fifty Daves, one heir watching you in something like awe. 

His swings are uneven, his grip high and tight on the weapon. Karkat’s not in his element, which suits you just fine, thanks for asking. He makes up for it in footwork: feints and springs to the side like a wind-up doll gone rogue. You have to quickstep to compensate, leaving Karkat’s strike to connect with empty air. He makes a funny little noise at you, a growl between breaths as he tries to shift his hands without breaking momentum. 

You seize the opportunity to lunge, and clip him in the side. Karkat hisses. 

“One-nil!” Roxy calls, out of your direct line of sight. When you glance over at John, he’s grinning. 

Karkat’s sword doesn’t lower as you take your step back. He follows your gaze to John before focusing on you, eyes sharp and grey and full of storms. “Two more,” you say cheerfully. 

He ducks your attack, going for your knees. Dick move, but effective—you’re forced to twist again, and Karkat’s weapon comes up to meet your exposed side. You cross your sword over your body to the right in a shitty block: the resulting clash makes your teeth rattle, a bit too close for comfort. You push hard, your height adding the extra dose of power you need to send Karkat stumbling backwards. He stays low, watching every part of you at once. As for you, your eyes are on his hands: he’s moved his grip even higher, far as it’ll go. 

“Sword’s long enough for a higher target,” you offer, gesturing to your chest with your free hand. “I can’t blame you for admiring the legs, though, I mean—”

He whacks you in the shin, faster than you had anticipated, and you let out the second or third most uncool yelp of your life as you buckle. You tuck into an awkward roll, but it’s too late. Roxy sounds a little too excited when she announces, “One-one!”

Karkat spins the weapon like you saw him do last night and grimaces at you. “I’ve seen way fucking better, southerner.” 

You want to smack yourself for the zillionth time in a very short period. 

When you get to your feet, you wait for the offensive strike you know is coming. It’s still low, but less so, like Karkat’s trying to not be predictable. You parry this one easily, deflecting it and pressing forward again, backing Karkat into some metaphorical corner. He doesn’t like it—you’re close enough to see the way his pupils shrink, black pinpricks in those foreign eyes that give yours a run for their money. He bares his teeth at you, and you wonder what kind of wasteland Alternia must be if they let this feral child apprentice in the first place. 

Karkat breaks suddenly away, to your left. Fast again, but you’ve spent over fifteen years sparring with someone who can move faster, and now that you’re expecting it you bring your sword up with ease. Block, fake, counter; Roxy calls your second point almost before your sword strikes Karkat just beneath his armpit. The wince on his face morphs into something angrier, which you hadn’t really thought possible on the kid. 

“Come on, man. Gotta have more left in the tank than that.”

His ears flare a strange red over the grey of his skin, and if looks could kill you’d be haunting his ass right about now. You twirl your sword in your grip, the familiar lightness of the weapon a confidence boost. “I thought you were supposed to be showing off. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

He jabs at you, and you spring back, balanced on the balls of your feet. “John’s gonna be disappointed, new boy,” you taunt.

“ _My name is not new boy._ ” 

Karkat leaps at you, barrelling into you with one scrawny shoulder to your solar plexus. You plant one boot behind you and end up blocking his next strike with your forearm; your bracer makes a horrible clacking noise when the blade strikes it. In your periphery, John flinches the tiniest bit. 

He doesn’t slow his momentum, powered by short legs, rising volume and sheer pissed-offness. “My name is Karkat _fucking_ Vantas”—jab—“I was born in a river district in the middle of _fucknowhere_ ”—jab, counter—“my father was a preacher who died a _useless_ death”—parry—“gods only _know_ how my brother’s not in fucking _jail_ ”—hard jab, aimed at your heart—“I busted my ass to get here after _twelve fucking years_ and now I have to deal with the likes of _you!_ ” 

He punctuates his tirade with a slam of his hilt just under your jaw. The blow makes you reel back, and a second strike knocks the wind out of you as you hit the ground. Your shades land somewhere beside you with a clatter; you stare at the ceiling, gulping air, adjusting your eyes to the sudden light. 

“Two-one,” Roxy repeats, “no point.” When Karkat whirls to glare at her, she shrugs. “His Grace said clean hit. Try again, Vantas.”

You spin onto your knees, pushing yourself up using your blade (Bad form, but Dirk isn’t here to point it out). “Okay,” you say. It comes out scratchy, and you try again. “Okay. Let’s finish this, Karkat _fucking_ Vantas.”

Karkat spins back to face you, and the rage on his face freezes when he gets a good look at you. You can see the _what-the-fuck_ you were expecting start to form on his mouth. You don’t give him time to finish.

Your sword sweeps right to left in a cleaving motion that makes his spine curl to avoid it without moving his feet: a mistake that throws him off-balance. He blocks, a desperate sort of parry that gives you the extra push to get this over with. A flashstep to the side makes him swear and twist on his heel, blocking you again. Karkat’s breaths are short, but even, and he’s adjusting quickly to your height—you wonder what kind of training he’s gotten back home. 

He raises his weapon above his head to bring it down in a last hurrah, and your own sword meets his with a crack that shakes your bones. You can feel him push against your blade. This boy is a head and a half shorter than you, concentrated passion in every move, every word he shouts at you. Like he’s throwing his whole life behind every syllable. 

You do not understand Karkat Vantas, but at the same time you kind of do. What a fucking pain. 

You meet his eyes over your crossed wooden blades and wink at him. 

He gawks. “What—”

You shove, and your next strike disarms him completely—Karkat’s sword flies out of his hand and he staggers backwards. You follow through, towering over him until he falls, arms splayed out behind him to catch himself; he lands prone, propped up on his elbows, exposed to Skaia’s watchful eyes. 

The tip of your sword taps very gently against his chest, at the crimson sigil stitched into his shirt. “Bump.”

Silence replaces the sounds of active strife for a beat. Roxy sounds far away when she announces your win. “Three-one. Sword down, Strider.”

Karkat’s features are frozen in stunned surprise, angry eyebrows raised high, his mouth open in a comic “o” shape. You don’t terribly mind—it means you don’t have to listen to him for a bit. You toss your sword high and far, and Roxy jumps out of her chair to catch it. 

When John speaks, you both turn your heads, Karkat still on the ground, trying to catch flies with his mouth. “Skaia thanks you for your service,” he says, formal words a sing-song in the bright, high timbre of his voice. “Karkat, Dave, are you okay?” 

Your jaw seems to remember it was assaulted and throbs in response. You ignore it, throwing a thumbs up. “Ace, your Grace.”

Karkat rolls his eyes, but throws in a “Fine, your Grace” in the prince’s general direction.

John sits up a little straighter. An advisor leans forward to say something in his ear. You extend a hand to the boy beneath you: Karkat looks about ready to bite it off. 

“C’mon. This part’s the last.” 

He sighs, and takes your hand. Weaponless, it feels a lot smaller, like when you had grabbed John’s hand years ago and realized just how much yours had grown. You pull him up easily, holding him in your grip until he regains his balance. The both of you then proceed to share the most half-assed handshake in probably all of history. Karkat does not meet your eyes. 

“You were lucky,” he hisses, low so only you can hear.

“I was better,” you correct him.

“You’re despicable.”

‘Maybe. But also better.”

In the corner of your eye, John gets up, and you release each other to stand at attention. “Get yourselves cleaned up,” John says, “you’ll be briefed later, and then Dad—”

You and Karkat both kind of jump, at the unexpected mention of the king. 

John seems to notice, and he laughs a little. “My father’s requested you both at dinner. We like to give our guests official welcomes!” 

Karkat’s shock is threatening to turn into embarrassment. “You don’t have to— _ow_ , fuck!”

You remove your foot from his and dip your head serenely at your friend. (You pay no attention to the half-serious scolding face he’s giving you.) “We’ll wait for your call, your Grace.” Karkat follows suit, grumbling something at his boots.

“Great!” John beams, and it’s enough to make you want to nosedive for your shades right then and there. “I’ll see you both soon. Well done today.”

The two of you bow. When you raise your heads again, John is gone, along with Roxy and the courtiers. 

You stoop to pick up the second sword, as well as your glasses. Karkat watches you, the frown on his face relaxing into a slightly smaller one you assume is his default expression. “Day one, Strider,” is all he says as you fix your shades on your nose. The world gets a little darker; you might have to tighten one of the arms. 

“It’ll feel way longer if you count, bro.” 

You stand again, and he looks straight at you once more, blinking slow and exasperated. “I’m not your _bro_ ,” Karkat snarls. His voice gets a little gravelly when he’s tired: it did the same thing yesterday.

“Yeah, I got that during your little one-man rant. Gripping speech, I’ll tell my friends about it.”

“Bite me.” 

“Not even a ‘please?’ _Goodness_ , these Alternian manners—”

Karkat jabs a finger at your chest, tiny stabs at your sternum. “Why don’t you take this fucking seriously? I did not drag my ass to this shithole to—”

“I’m serious as death,” you interrupt, “when it comes to the prince. Don’t make that mistake about me. Any other mistakes are fair game, but maybe keep that one in that thick skull of yours.”

You thrust the sword at him and turn, waving over your shoulder. “See you at dinner, Karkat Vantas.” 

When you leave, your heels sound an awful lot like the crack of wooden sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i'm usually boppin on [tumblr](http://auxanges.tumblr.com) between fic updates!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s father leads a proud round of applause, and you and Dave both follow suit along with the rest of the courtiers. He blinks, and the smile he offers up is shy, and you feel something in you sign away a piece of your fate to this boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taps mic and sweats. remember this
> 
> i first want to say thank you to everyone for your IMMENSE patience with this fic. 2017 was a really chaotic year for me, to say the least-a lot of mental hurdles but i graduated from my first degree and started another. by the time i got off my ass to write i just didnt have the energy, so this chapter stayed half-finished since like.....march. so if it seems like there are tonal problems you are not making it up and i am very sorry i tried to keep it consistent lol
> 
> secondly the positive feedback and kind comments i've received here and on tumblr never cease to make me smile! even months after the last posting i'd get a nice notif from here and it really means the world to me that you guys keep coming back to read this and enjoy it. thank you my dudes, seriously. you rock these socks
> 
> as always, huge thank you to aryll for the au sandbox i dick around in. enjoy the holidays and heres hopin 2018 gets its shit together

**> Karkat: brood.**

Back in your room, you call for hot water and sit in the tub until it runs cool again. Sparring swords don’t really hit hard enough to bruise, not usually, but you’re something of a special (unfortunate? idiotic?) case: your clusterfuck of genes and temperamental blood have made marks already start to appear where Dave scored his points, colourful semi-permanent reminders of how he has the upper hand already. 

You lie back and duck your head underwater, until your ears are submerged and you have to hold your breath. Your hair lifts away from your head, and you kind of let yourself hang in suspended animation, eyes closed, waiting for John Egbert to call you up again. Waiting to answer, like you were born to.

When your lungs start to burn and you surface, sputtering and blinking soap from your eyes, sunlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. Dust sparkles in its wake. You towel off without much attention to your hair, which you have officially deemed a lost fucking cause as of right now. You’ve thrown on britches and are hunting down clean stockings when a parcel on your bed catches your eye. 

Either your princess had your measurements sent over in advance, or the rumours of Skaia being entrenched in magic are true. 

As you carefully unfold the tunic, neatly tailored in the style of your new place of work, you run your fingers over the familiar stitch patterns and settle on option three, which is that a certain friend of yours has been recruited to make you blend in. 

(Yet another lost cause, Maryam, but you appreciate the effort anyway.)

You get changed quickly. As expected, it fits like it was made for you (it was) by someone who knows you and your purpose inside and out (she does). You feel the fabric move and shift when you flex your arms, the way it lies so naturally on your shoulders, at your hips. The pants make you look taller, almost, as you tug on the better-looking boots you own. You make a mental note to thank Kanaya when you see her next, whenever that may be. 

There’s a mirror in the room, and you gingerly pull the curtains back a little more to get a good look at yourself. You are a fading fire, ash-grey in the pigment of your skin, the irises of your eyes. Your hair sticks out every which way, still damp from the bath, rust-red and probably in need of a trim. With the bags under your eyes and the near-permanent downward curve of your mouth, you look like you haven’t slept in fucking weeks.

(A half-truth. Whatever sleep you usually get is filled with dreams tinted red, and when you wake it’s with your heart in your throat and a sense of urgency that seems to live in your marrow.)

You are dressed for Skaian court: the tunic is form-fitting, true to your own familiar colours with gold stitched in like sundrops. Your crest has been replicated over your heart; a crescent moon, small and bright, sits centred on the edge of your hood. You feel as though you should be in two places at once. 

You think you’re okay with this. 

*

When someone knocks on your door, you’re honestly expecting the overly chipper Jade girl again. Instead, your friend lowers his glasses to waggle his eyebrows and whistle through his teeth at you. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Captor grins. “Been here two whole days and you look the part. Colour me impressed.”

“Only colour I see you in is puke-green,” you shoot back, but it’s easy banter, and when Sollux’s fist bumps against yours you feel more relaxed than you have all day. “Adjusting?”

Sollux shrugs as you shut the door behind you. Court colours catch the light on his clothes, too, when you start walking: Kanaya’s been busy. “You say that like you’re expecting me to be anything less than the fucking best. I’m wounded, truly.” 

You roll your eyes. “A thousand ass-kissing sorries for not grovelling at your feet on sight. I got the shit kicked out of me by an angry ghost.”

“…do you mean that—”

“ _No_ , I do not mean that _literally_ , Captor, wipe the goddamn smirk off your face.” You fiddle with your hood as you wind your way down a narrow set of stairs. Sollux already seems to know where he’s going: he likes puzzles, decodes and transcribes for a living, he told you this much on the journey over. You make another mental note to have him show you around, when the both of you aren’t busy. 

Sollux can’t help himself. “Who handed you your ass?” 

Fiddle, fiddle. “The other boy. Strider. About this high”—you wave your hand over your head, taking a few steps on tiptoes—“looks a fucking revenant, talks like he has a mouthful of honey.” 

“Poetic.”

“Fuck. You.” You punch Sollux on the arm; he shoves you in return. “He’s after my—he’s after the same position I’m trying for.”

He says, “And?” 

“And—are you fucking _kidding_ me? I work my ass off for half my life trying to _survive_ , to make something of myself, and boy wonder swoops the hellin like he came out the womb with the sole purpose of ruining my chance at any semblance of success, making mutated goo-goo eyes at the heir like a schoolgirl, and all you have for me, oh infinitely fucking wise communications master, is ‘ _and?!’”_

Sollux slows to a stop and blinks at you before bursting into laughter, a hand on your shoulder for support as he proves himself to be a complete douche. 

“Serious problem here, Captor.”

“Right, right,” he wheezes. “Look, the kid’s just another sparring partner. Don't let him get into your brain, you don’t have much room to spare.”

“Never go into motivational speaking.”

He pats you on the cheek before taking off again, making you trail after him. “Got bigger fish to fry, Vantas. And so do you. Don’t allow a not-real-ghost to interfere with what you came here for.” 

Your hand moves from your cheek to your side, where Dave scored his first point. It’s tender to the touch, even under layers. You were not cut from whatever courtly cloth he was. You are rough around the edges; you are coarse and scarred and brittle. 

What does John see in you?

“KK.”

Sollux’s voice snaps you back to attention. “Hm?” 

“We’re here.” 

*

The dining hall you’ve been brought to is, you guess, a modest one: two tables face one another at one end of the room, with another table on a raised platform. At the other, musicians tune and talk quietly among themselves. 

John surfaces before you have time to fully get your bearings. He doesn’t look much different from earlier, with the exception of a capelet, one of those little half-things that reaches the bottom of his shoulder blades like tiny folded wings. He smiles at the both of you, and you feel Sollux shift as he bows. You’re not sure whether to follow suit, and you compromise by dipping your head, which seems to suit John just fine. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says. It wasn’t long ago that your own sovereign said that to you—circumstance and voice make the words ring in a new way in your ears. “Sollux, right? Your companions are waiting for you over there.” 

John gestures to the far table. Eridan and Vriska are among the courtiers and crewmen: their outfits must be new, too, and they stick out and blend in all at once. Kanaya has some fucking talent. Sollux thanks him (the retroflex in _Grace_ over-enunciated to compensate in a way that makes the prince flash him a grin) and ducks around chairs to join them. You watch him go. 

“If you don’t mind,” John says to you, and you turn so fast your hair falls back into your eyes. You blow it out of the way without thinking. “—I’ve arranged a place for you at my table.”

He motions with a nod behind him: the head table is set and filling with people you recognize, for the most part. Blondes—sisters—with matching, mischievous painted smiles and arched eyebrows, girls with glasses and kind eyes in hushed conversation at one end—and your least favourite friend. 

Dave spots you at the same time you spot him. He’s not wearing his shades: under the light of the chandeliers in the hall, you see him look you up and down, taking in your change of clothes. 

And then again. Slower.

You don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, and you really don't know which would be worse. Your face burns; you look away first. 

A cool hand around your wrist distracts you from your pouting. “This way,” John prods, and leads you around the perimeter to the head table. You shudder to an abrupt halt in front of it. 

“Karkat, I’d like you to meet my father.”

The king of Skaia is broad-shouldered and inviting, and when he informs you that you’ve met once before in Alternia you find yourself nodding along with the booming warmth of his voice. You were young when your father died, but this is how a parent should be, you think—more so than a king. 

Skaia is so, so backwards. 

Dinner is ambitious—plates piled high with fruits and meats and colourful drinks that you eye suspiciously when one is poured into your glass. You’re on John’s right, between him and his father at his request: Dave sits at his left. He’s been watching you for the past ten minutes. 

You’re not entirely certain, but you’re pretty sure it’s considered rude to tell someone a picture will last way fucking longer at the dinner table. 

When the king speaks again, it’s directed at both of you, and it catches you off guard when he asks what your intentions are with his son. You redden to match your clothing; Dave nearly spits out his drink; John lets out a mortified little “ _Dad_ , you _promised!_ ” 

The both of you are quick to reaffirm your purpose, stumbling over each other’s syllables, and it’s a solid goddamn minute before the king lets out a laugh and nudges you hard enough to almost tip you over and out of your chair. You drink whatever’s in your glass very quickly after that. 

Not the best idea, probably, when John leans over to whisper in your ear. “Sorry. He thinks he’s a lot funnier than he is.” 

You pull yourself together enough to shake your head. “Seems to be a recurring theme around here. Present company excluded,” you add hastily, with a gesture towards him. 

He giggles. You didn’t really know princes _giggled_ , but in your experience, princes don’t flush red at the cheeks, or lean even closer to bump your heads together, and they definitely, _definitely_ don't spring out of their chairs when one of the musicians starts up at the pianoforte. 

You watch him grab a pastry from a plate—it’s Dave’s plate, and for all that you’re incredulous he doesn't look fazed in the least, swatting after him half-heartedly—before nearly vaulting over a table to reach the instrument, perching on one end of the bench and following along to turn the pages on the stand.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” you blurt out, before you can stop yourself. Someone’s refilled your glass while you weren’t looking. You hope they get paid all of the big bucks. 

“What’d I say, Vantas?” Dave replies, suddenly in your periphery. “Serious as death about the prince.” 

He keeps his voice a trained flat tone, but you hear the admiration in it, a near fucking tangible thing. He doesn’t look away from John, and you begrudgingly follow his gaze.

Skaia’s heir has taken the courtier’s place, and his fingers dance over of the keys like the instrument was made for him, ivory and ebony and wood and brass with his initials stamped on every piece. It sings to something in your chest, and you have exactly zero clue how to react. You settle for staring. 

You half expect him to look up at you, do something John-like, you don’t know. But his eyes are on the instrument, up to the paper, back down to his hands, the very tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. He kind of nods along, like the paper’s made a good point, a conversation of which you’re only privy to half. It is strangely intimate. It is the closest thing to magic you’re willing to stomach. It is, indeed, very John-like. 

When he does look up, he beams at the both of you, hands spread in easy chords that reach across the empty half of the hall where the musicians are set up over the tables and directly into your undersized chest. Lightning could have struck you square on your ginger head and achieved about the same result. 

John’s father leads a proud round of applause, and you and Dave both follow suit along with the rest of the courtiers. He blinks, and the smile he offers up is shy, and you feel something in you sign away a piece of your fate to this boy. 

He launches off the bench again, and the musicians strike up another tune in his place, something suited for the activity you've loathed most in all your time in any kingdom. 

Skaians and Alternians pair off to dance, and the hands that settle into yours are far too warm for your liking. 

* * *

**> Dave: Strife?**

You’ve got to hand it to the foreigner: whatever expectations you’d started forming in the ring had not included the waltz. 

The lead falls naturally to you, a direct consequence of your height. You’re used to it, though, from years of John or your cousins as dance partners, and you shorten your steps and try to talk yourself out of stomping on Karkat’s toes.

Around you, the music swells like the tide down dockside. Between you and Karkat, silence. His gaze is locked somewhere in the middle of your chest, the hand in yours a cross between a wet fish and a wet fish encased in armour. When you’ve had enough, you drop your resolve. “How are your ribs?”

That startles him into looking up, but he doesn’t fall out of rhythm with you. “My what.”

“Your ribs. The bones that keep all your jelly bits in you? Were subject to an incident involving a ten-pound wooden stick swung at them?”

“Thanks for the clarification,” says Karkat, in a way that makes you suspect he’s not very thankful at all. He spins out of your grip, and makes eye contact with the black-haired boy he came in with. When you twist in turn, Karkat’s frown looks more… conceding. “They’re fine.”

“John’s not gonna forgive me if I break you so early on. Give it to me straight, new b—Karkat.”

You watch surprise take the place of hesitation. “I’ve had worse.”

“So have I,” you shoot back, easily. 

He falls quiet again for the next few measures. You’re about to breach it when he says, “I don’t need your sympathy.” 

“That’s fine. I wasn’t giving it to you.”

Karkat wrinkles his nose.

“Someone piss on your shoes?” you ask. 

“Bite me.” He makes a game attempt at stepping on your foot; you slide away and brace when it makes him stumble. His nails dig into your sleeves. “What do you call it, then? You—won, fair and square.”

Karkat admits it through gritted teeth, like the syllables hurt. Again, you find yourself wishing you could stop relating to him. 

“I almost didn’t think I would,” you reply, which makes that fire in his eyes blaze for a very long, very strange second.

“I told you not to pity me,” he snarls, and this time he does stomp on your foot. 

The dance calls for a lift: you’re all too happy to oblige, giving Karkat little (okay, no) warning before launching him off his feet. His taller friend, paired off with Roxy, turns to give a little wave, at eye level. 

Behind you, you hear John giggle, held aloft by the blonde Alternian for longer than seems real. 

Your delicious victory lasts until Karkat lands, again, on your feet. 

“Fucking _ow_ ,” you mutter, stepping back: the foreigner surges forward to trap your hands in his. The music continues, oblivious. 

“I shouldn’t have told you anything about me,” he’s griping. “I came here to do a job—”

“I’ve _been_ here to do mine,” you interrupt. “You’re seriously cramping my prospects, Karkat Vantas.”

It’s the gold filigree in his clothing, you think, that makes him look like he’s burning from the inside out. “Good. The sooner you let me do what I came here for, the sooner we stop this.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, is this?”

Karkat opens his mouth, then hesitates. “I…”

The piece crescendos again, a fervent pace to the end. His hands tighten in yours, on your upper arm. You swear you can feel his pulse through his palm. 

“What makes you think you deserve John, Karkat Vantas?” you say, with the same sincerity that you use with yourself, in the tarnished mirror in your room. 

He looks away. 

A final swell, and you bring Karkat in a low dip. He’s got funny little specks in his eyes, when he wrenches them back to look at you. Angry eye freckles. 

You are such a fucking poet, you are. 

When you pull away to applaud the musicians, you raise a foot to step on his toes in vengeance, but Karkat’s already disappeared. 

*

Courtiers know how to clear out fast. You observe—it’s a thing you’ve always been good at, observing, it’s how you and Dirk learned the world, first from the backcountry village you came from, and then when you came to train in the capital. You kind of squat, on the balls of your feet like a perched bird. 

When the metaphorical smoke clears, you’re alone with your oldest friend, in his favourite position with his legs crossed under that princely little posterior on the piano bench. 

“You looked like you were having a nice time,” John offers: you tip your head up to watch the words hang on the lingering notes of the waltz. 

You reply, “You look like you have no clue what a nice time means.”

“You’re difficult.” John stretches, his arms high above his head, and spins around to rest his hands on the keys again. 

“I’m a joy to be around.” Slowly, you stand, shuffling your boots across the polished floor. John scoots to make room for you: not for the first time, you find yourself wondering what you did to earn a place in his innermost circle. 

John strikes up another piece, and you content yourself with drumming on the music stand, then his shoulder, then back to the music stand. You keep it up, throwing in solos over his codettas until he’s snickering too hard to play properly. 

He speaks first, again. “I think it’s good. That you and Karkat are here together.”

You wrinkle your nose, the irony of the mirror of Karkat's earlier action like tiny fireworks between your ears. “Your li’l cape thing might be cutting off blood supply to your brain.”

“Seriously. When was the last time you worked so hard in the ring?” John spins again, to straddle the piano bench; you stand on automatic, shimmying backwards until you can lean your elbows on the body of the piano. “People are watching, Dave. They always are. That’s the way things go here.”

“The way things go is a shade or two shittier than I’d like. Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”

John frowns. Such a sour expression doesn’t become him, but he keeps his tone light. Princely. “You’re missing the point. People watching is good! They’ll see that you belong!”

It’s your turn to frown. “Belonging has never been a priority of mine.”

“Dave…” John mashes a handful of keys with his elbow, cupping his cheek as the instrument lets out a discordant protest. He repeats, “That’s the way things go, here.”

“Yeah, well. Why do they have to go like that?” 

You’re reminded with one of his sadder smiles that John does not have all the answers. 

“Don’t give up,” he says quietly, when you’re halfway through a flourishing bow. “People want to see you here.” One beat. Two. “ _I_ want to see you here.” 

You crack a smile. “Good night, John.”

“Save me a dance, next time!” he calls to your shadow, and you flip off Skaia’s heir apparent with all the grace you can muster. 


End file.
